


Eliot Waugh and the Case of the Cocooned Conjurers

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Detectives, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 06:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Dr. Quentin Coldwater, a veteran of the Great War of Magic, finds himself caught up in the multiple murders within the magical community of New York City in 1893. Soon he meets Eliot Waugh, a consulting detective Inspector Fogg has brought on board to help solve the mystery. Quentin soon realizes that there's much more to this tall stranger than meets the eye.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock or The Magicians, this is just for fun and the result of me reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle over the holidays. I hope to update this at least once a week. Please let me know what you think, and I truly appreciate you stopping in to read this.

**Eliot Waugh and the Case of the Cocooned Conjurers**

# Prologue

A brisk rain turned the sidewalk on which I traveled into a reflective expanse of muddy orange light filled with restless ghosts as people hurried past me. The tip of my cane broke the effect with every step I took, sending out ripples in the standing water each time it touched down. I usually walked quite well without it when the weather wasn’t damp, but it had been raining for nearly five days now and Manhattan brooded under a sky so uniformly grey that it washed the colors out of the surrounding buildings, even at sunset, which had passed a moment ago. Even the mighty Empire State Building looked subdued. A carriage passed me and a well-to-do fellow glanced out at me as the horse walked at a steady pace. I was used to such glances—the youthful face under a fall of silver-white hair often startled people, and because I had yet to climb out of my twenties, I could understand their curiosity. I couldn’t tarry this evening, however; I had been summoned to a crime scene by Inspector Fogg, as my experience as a doctor and a soldier in the Great War of Magic was required.

 

The carriage passed and I turned the corner. At the end of the sidewalk, a trio of people stood under the glow of a streetlight that wore a fairy ring of moisture. Two I recognized: Inspector Fogg, his bald, dark-skinned head gleaming in the lamp’s glow, and his assistant, a young but severe-looking blonde woman named Alice Quinn. While a woman involving herself in police work was unheard of in the everyday business of the city, the magical community was different and Fogg welcomed anyone who had ability. I’d heard through local gossip that Alice Quinn was young but unusually talented, as she’d come from a family that boasted nearly four generations of magical adepts. This gave her a somewhat highbrow attitude that chafed someone like me, who’d come from Protestant parents who were only one generation removed from the working-class area of London’s east end.

 

“Ah! Dr. Coldwater, at last,” Inspector Fogg said as I reached the group. “You remember Alice Quinn, my assistant?”

“Charmed, as always,” I nodded, and the young woman gave me a polite nod.

 

“Doctor.”

 

“Inspector, if we could get on with it?”

 

I turned at the words to encounter the man I hadn’t recognized earlier. He was startlingly tall, with dark, curly hair that fell over his forehead and to the collar of the black wool overcoat he wore. He had a handsome face dominated by a Roman nose and deep-set eyes the color of Baltic amber in the glow of the streetlight. He seemed removed from the other two physically, yet focused on the matter at hand.

 

“Of course—Dr. Coldwater, this is Eliot Waugh, a consulting magical detective on this case. Eliot Waugh, Dr. Quentin Coldwater, healer and expert on physical and anatomical applications of magic.”

 

“Delighted,” Waugh nodded in a manner that suggested quite the opposite as his gaze flicked to the entrance of an alleyway nearby. “Shall we?”

 

“Yes.” Fogg turned, his brown wool coat flaring as he led us into the alley. A figure laid there, shrouded in a black tarp supplied by Fogg’s men, and I knelt down on my good knee, setting my cane aside. Waugh stood slightly to my right as I lifted the rain-slick tarp. Underneath was the body of a man about 25 years of age and of average height. He wore a short goatee and an expression of horror, his blue eyes glazed but not yet filmed over in death.

 

“What do you make of that?” Fogg asked, nodding to the thick grey material that cocooned all but the man’s head. “It’s like the other two we found, and I’ll wager his hands are missing like theirs were as well.”

 

“But why take the hands?” Quinn asked, her brow furrowing. “If the motive is robbery, wouldn’t it be simpler to remove jewelry and other items from the fingers and wrists without resorting to dismemberment?”

 

“Indeed, but the motive here is not robbery—at least not of material things, as you suggest,” Waugh spoke up. Quinn threw him an irritated glance.

 

“And how can you be so sure?”

 

“Because, madam, the corpses found previously had bank notes on their persons, discovered after the wrappings were removed at Brakebills,” he said, speaking of the graduate-level school of magical pedagogy where some magicians—myself included—had learned their trades and discovered their specialties.

 

“Then explain the wrappings,” Quinn challenged the tall detective, and Waugh looked thoughtful for a moment. Fogg knelt down and used a thin knife to cut through the bands of material. They gave way after a moment and snapped upward, like thick industrial cable.

“They were not used to subdue the victim,” Waugh noted, pointing. “Look there.”

 

Quinn brought a lantern close and I looked down at the body. The man’s coat and shirt had been removed and his hands were missing.

 

“The hands were removed before he was cocooned,” I said, glancing around the alley. A dark patch of blood near a cluster of garbage cans, still tacky looking in the light of the lantern, gave me my answer. “It happened there. And look, there is hardly any blood present on the wrappings. This man was cocooned after he bled out.” I examined one of the stumps. “Curious . . .”

 

“What’s that?” Waugh asked, kneeling down beside me, and I lifted the dead man’s arm; the limb was already starting to stiffen with rigor.

 

“Look here. The flesh at the wrist—the wounds are jagged, uneven. This was no surgical removal. It is as if the hands were chewed off.”

 

“Chewed!” Quinn frowned. “What manner of beast could do such a thing, and for what purpose?”

 

“That’s what we must find out, Ms. Quinn.” Fogg pulled a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat and used it to mop rainwater from his face. “I will have the body removed to Brakebills so you can examine it further, Dr. Coldwater.”

 

“Very well.” I summoned my cane into my right hand and pushed to my feet. The wet weather made my knee and shoulder swell, and a hot cup of tea doctored with a dollop of good whiskey back at my rented room began to sound like just the thing.

 

A portal opened nearby, the irregular circle glowing with light, as Fogg directed a few medical types from Brakebills on how to handle the body. He, his assistant, and the corpse vanished through the portal a moment later and then closed, leaving me alone in the alley with Eliot Waugh.

 

“How long did you serve in the Great War?” He asked, and I glanced up.

 

“Fogg told you I served?”

 

The tall man shook his head.

 

“The cane, the way the rain slowed your movements. Your right knee and shoulder have obviously been reconstructed and concealed with magical doctoring. Did the Fillorian centaurs heal you?”

 

They had, but I didn’t much like this stork of a fellow guessing so.

 

“Yes,” I said at last. “And what else do you know about me?”

 

“Nothing you haven’t already revealed, good sir.” He pulled his overcoat around him as the rain increased. “Deductions . . . nothing more.” He turned and took his leave, vanishing into the fog before I could utter a word in reply. The patter of rain muted his footsteps, leaving me standing in the halo of the streetlight’s glow, my mind as unsettled as it had been back during the war, when images of dismembered bodies of friends and foes alike littered my dreams like the spilled contents of a desecrated graveyard.


	2. Dr. Quentin Coldwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Coldwater meets with Eliot Waugh, consulting magical detective, at his home at 22B Bleeker Street to accept a strange invitation and meets another magical adept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this! I hope to update again soon.

A businesslike rapping on my door woke me from a restless sleep the following morning. I staggered to my feet only to see a note slip its way under the threshold. Cursing, I retrieved it and flipped it over. It was a single piece of paper, folded in half and sealed with a wax embossing of a stylized **W**. I broke the seal and unfolded the paper to find a handwritten note:

 

                          ** _My Dear Dr. Coldwater:_**

****

**_Please come to my flat at 22B Bleeker Street, at your earliest convenience. We_ **

**_Have urgent business to discuss regarding last evening’s events._ **

****

**_Regards,_ **

****

**_Eliot Waugh_ **

 

“What the deuce could he possibly want to discuss that he doesn’t already know?” I tossed the letter on my nightstand but set about washing and dressing. Despite what the consulting detective knew, I had my own curiosities to satisfy.

 

Twenty minutes later, I was bound for Bleeker Street, my hair mostly hidden under a grey watchmen’s cap. The Hudson was shrouded in mist, but there was no rain to soak the people who were already on about their business. My carriage’s horse was an alert, high-stepping bay, and before long I found myself in front of 22 Bleeker Street. I paid the cabbie and stepped down, peering up at the two-story building. The main floor looked to hold a sundries shop while the upper clue gave no clue to its usage. Simple ivory curtains hung in the two windows that faced the street, and I watched them for signs of movement as I climbed the three wooden steps that led to the porch. The sundries shop door bore a crooked CLOSED-DO CALL AGAIN sign but there was a buzzer to my right and one of the push buttons was labeled “22B.” I pushed it, waited, then pushed it again. The morning mist grew thicker and then turned into rain.

 

“Blast this fellow!” I muttered. “Am I to wait in the rain all—”

 

I was interrupted as the sundries door swung open and a young woman stared up at me. She was about my age, with dark, deep-set eyes. The top of her head barely reached my shoulder. Her cupid’s bow lips thinned as she looked me up and down.

 

“So, it’s you,” she said in a dry tone that lacked the faint accent some first-generation New Yorkers carried as a result of being raised by British parents. Something in it made me straighten my spine.

 

“Good morning, miss. I—”

 

“You’re here to see Eliot,” She broke in, opening the door wider. “Come on.”

 

“Well yes I am,” I continued, making a second attempt at politeness. “I’m—”

 

“Dr. Coldwater,” she nodded, leading me through the shop and to a rear staircase. The sundries shop was cleaner than most boardinghouse kitchens I’d seen and smelled like lavender, menthol, and herbs.

 

“Yes. But excuse me, miss?”

 

“I’m not a miss. I’m Margo. Margo Hanson, and this is my shop. My building, too, if you want to get technical.” She eyed my cane. “Can you manage the stairs? How crippled are you?”

 

“I’m not crippled.” I lifted my cane and headed for the steps despite my aching knee. “I only use my cane when the weather’s damp.”

 

“Eliot tells me you were a healer and a soldier in the Great War of Magic.”

 

“I was,” I nodded as I allowed her to lead the way up the steps.

 

“Looks like you battled with some serious nasties.” We reached the second-floor landing and I found myself facing a scarred oak door. Brass characters tacked top the door spelled out 22B and I could sense the wards that protected the door itself. The brass was likely no accident, as it was useful for strengthening protective spells. Margo undid the wards with a few gestures and opened the door as the wards fell. A plume of smoke puffed out and Margo waved a hand in front of her face.

 

“Oh, Jesus!” She snapped, stepping inside. I followed her to encounter a thick veil of smoke. “Eliot! What have you done?”

 

“Don’t be alarmed!” The tall magician’s voice came from somewhere on the other side of the room. “It was a simple experimental spell that created more of a reaction than I anticipated.”

 

“I’ll anticipate tossing you out of here!” Margo replied, and Eliot Waugh came through the curtain of smoke like a wraith. He was dressed in a shabby but dignified black-and-red robe over a simple nightshirt.

 

_The nerve of this man, to not even have dressed for my visit!_ I thought to myself, and Waugh gave Margo what he likely thought of as a disarming smile.

 

“No need for ruffled feathers, dear woman. The smoke isn’t very acrid, I doubt it will damage your wallpaper.”

 

“Your guest is here,” Margo replied, and Waugh looked me up and down.

 

“So he is.”

 

“I’ll bring you tea. God knows when you last ate!” The young woman gathered some dirty ashtrays from near the fireplace and vanished into another room, muttering to herself. I shifted my weight to my good leg.

“Your wife?” I asked, and Waugh chuffed out laughter.

 

“Gods, no! Did we give you that impression, doctor?”

 

“A bit,” I nodded, and he gestured for me to sit. I did, setting aside my cane and removing my cap. Waugh lit a cigarette.

 

“Margo is my good friend and confidante of many years. She’s a talented magician and makes her living selling sundries to non-magical folk and spell ingredients to our kind. A generous family inheritance allowed her to buy this building, and we room here together.” He blew out a rich plume of smoke. “People here think what they like, and that’s just fine. Isn’t it, Margo?” He asked as the young woman came back with a tea service and some delicious-looking pastries.

 

“Psh!” She snorted as she set the tray down. “I’ve no time to worry about what anyone thinks of me.” She nodded to the tray and I took a cup.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Now, as to why you’re here,” Waugh began, doctoring his tea with two sugar cubes. “I need you to come along with me to Brakebills this evening to examine the corpses Inspector Fogg has taken there.”

 

“Ah. And why me, exactly?”

 

“Your war experience has no doubt shown you things the inspector and his assistant have not.” He sipped his tea and a few errant dark curls fell over his forehead. “I do not completely trust their assessment of the bodies. As a veteran of the magical war, I deduce you fought many strange creatures and perhaps even encountered a few that might be capable of committing such a crime.”

 

“I may not be as experienced as you believe, Mr. Waugh. Yes, I saw battle and tried to heal the wounded as best I could, but—”

 

He waved a hand at me.

 

“Regardless, my fine fellow, you have more experience than Fogg, as I understand he spent his days during the war in an administrative capacity.”

 

“Naturally.” Margo rolled her eyes.

 

“So! You will tarry here with us this afternoon and evening, then we’ll journey to Brakebills together.” The tall magician crushed out his cigarette and helped himself to a pastry.

 

“Well . . . yes, I suppose I could,” I said at last, and Waugh’s amber eyes lit up as if touched by sunlight.

 

“Excellent!” He took a bite of pastry and Margo Hanson looked on with a wry and knowing smile.


	3. Eliot Waugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot observes his new companion: Margo reveals a possibility about Dr. Coldwater's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I hope you enjoy this installment and please let me know what you think. Thanks!

One of the most interesting aspects of being a magician in a time where so many immigrants were pouring into New York City was the old beliefs and superstitions they brought with them from their homelands. They came to Margo’s sundries shop every day for herbs to cure everything from bunions to headaches to expelling evil spirits from their hovels. Newly-displaced Brits seemed to be the most common of the latter, with their Victorian beliefs and strange preoccupation of the dead. As I lingered at the sundries counter and observed my new companion, Dr. Coldwater, examine Margo’s wares, a non-magical woman in her thirties begged her to help contact the soul of her six-year-old son who had died of smallpox the year before, while the family still lived in London.

 

“He never did anyone no harm,” the mother was sobbing as she showed Margo a silver gelatin memento mori print of a young boy dressed in his best and laid out on a tatty-looking sofa, flowers tucked in one dead fist, his cheeks tinted pink by the photographer. “It weren’t fair he died, and just to hear his sweet voice once more would ease this awful grief!”

 

My good friend was mostly unmoved and gave the women a look that I knew meant she was about to dish out a healthy dose of honesty. Whether this was to Margo’s credit I could never decide—after all, she could have made a fortune off people’s ignorance.

 

“Death, madame, does not discriminate between the innocent and the wicked. It takes both equally. It is unfortunate but true.” She reached out and closed the tin cover of the woman’s daguerreotype, but without harshness. “Also, I am not a medium, and I’ll tell you that those who tell you they can reach beyond that veil are slinging more dung than those who clean up after the carriages in the street.” She moved from behind the counter as the woman’s eyes pooled with fresh tears. “However, I do have some herbs you can brew into a lovely, sleepy tea and simmer in hot water for the kitchen or bedroom. The scents will help ease your mind, if only for a while.” She led her customer toward the back of the shop as Dr. Coldwater made his way back to my side.

 

“Do you think non-magical adepts would believe it if we told them that contacting the dead is no easier for us than it is for them?” He asked quietly, and I pulled my cigarette case from the inner pocket of my vest.

 

“Doubtful. It has been my experience, in fact, that magical adept or no, people believe what they choose to.” I offered him the case, but the somber young healer shook his head.

 

“No thank you. But the devil of it is, some experienced healers could heal smallpox and other diseases that plague children, but our laws forbid us from interfering with the progression of science.”

 

“Would you have cured that woman’s child, had you been there?” I asked. After a moment, the doctor shook his head.

“Healing isn’t as simple as some in our community think it is, Mr. Waugh. Even when a spell cures an illness, there is always a price to pay.” I watched as a tremor rippled through his lean shoulders; the right one had a slight dip a few inches away from where it met the arm, something few likely noticed. He noticed me observing him though, and lifted his chin with an angry jerk.

 

“It’s very rude to stare,” He said, and I lit my cigarette.

 

“Odd that you’re so defensive about something most would carry as a sign of honor and service.”

 

The doctor absolutely bristled.

 

“And what did you do in the war, sir?” His delivery was like that of a porcupine giving a snoutful of quills to an overly-curious hound.

 

“I was a spy for the side of white magic. The good guys, if you will.”

 

Dr. Coldwater’s expression shifted from outrage to guarded curiosity.

 

“You don’t strike me as particularly inconspicuous. I noticed you right away when I came to inspect that body last night.”

 

“I’m flattered,” I replied, and the doctor’s smooth cheeks went pink—a sight I found unusually intriguing. He was surely not yet thirty, although his silver-white hair and cane likely caused people to dismiss him as an elderly man.

 

“I simply meant—” He gestured toward me. “You’re quite tall and might be noticed easily.”

 

“I have a means of concealing myself, depending on the information I want to gather. Margo and I both specialize in physical magic and she’s especially talented with manipulating spell ingredients.” I blew out a plume of smoke. “We met during the war, and I find her to be loyal and intelligent—much more so than many of her gender.”

 

Margo came back to us then, having sent her customer off with a soothing tea and some lavender smudge.

 

“Can I just say I am so glad my grandparents came here before my parents were born so I don’t have all these appalling superstitions these immigrants do?"

 

“It’s not like they can help what they’re taught,” Dr. Coldwater spoke up, and Margo frowned.

 

“If I felt that way, I wouldn’t be helping any of them. It just amazes me what they believe!” She glanced at her jeweled watch. “It’s nearly four and afternoon tea is one English tradition I can appreciate. If you want to wash up, Dr. Coldwater, I have a small basin and pitcher in a back room to your left.”

 

“Thank you.” He headed toward the rear of the store as Margo turned the closed side of her door sign toward the street.

 

“So, what do you think of him?” She asked, and I lifted a shoulder.

 

“He’s an odd sort of fellow—empathetic, surely, and rather reticent about his time in the war.”

 

“You saw some horrors yourself,” Margo pointed out, and I nodded. Usually, a few shots of strong scotch or a dose of laudanum were enough to put the ghosts to rest—at least temporarily. However, judging by Dr. Coldwater’s appearance, he’d seen more battles than I had during my time as a spy.

 

“I saw someone who looked like him once,” Margo said, lowering her voice. “When the medical corps ordered some spell ingredients for their hospital in Brooklyn.”

 

I passed her my cigarette case and she helped herself to a roll of silk-cut French tobacco, lighting it with a swift hand motion.

 

“It was only a few days after we’d declared victory,” she continued, a plume of smoke escaping from between her lips, which were painted rose pink. “So the hospital was full. I delivered the ingredients to the head nurse of the recovery ward, and—” Here, she lowered her voice further. “And in one of the beds was a young man with that same kind of hair. Not really white, but more silver, and he was missing both his eyes. Not like they’d been put out by a weapon because that would have still left the sockets. They were gone completely, like they’d been erased. I never saw anything like that before. The nurse told me he’d been in a battle in the fairy realm and he’d managed to make it back, but it had cost him his eyes and several internal organs. When I went back to make the next delivery, there was another magician in that bed. The one who’d been fairy-touched had died.”

 

“I don’t doubt your account, Margo. But the fairy-touched rarely return from that realm, and those who do usually do not live long to tell what they saw there.”

 

“I know. But I swear, Dr. Coldwater has the look of that man I saw!”

 

The man in question emerged from the back room then, looking refreshed. I trained my eyes on him with purpose as he approached. Under the light from the store’s three chandeliers, I saw that his hair was indeed silver and not the chalky white of premature age, and that while a few lines around his eyes told a tale of broken sleep, there were no other signs the war had caused him to age before his time.

 

_Could Margo be right?_ I asked myself. _Had this odd little fellow with empathy for both magical and non-magical people survived a battle in the fabled and, by all accounts, terrifying fairy realm?_ It didn’t seem possible, yet here he was, moving along doggedly with his cane. I felt a smile grow on my lips: what a stubborn, determined figure he cut!

 

“Shall we take some tea upstairs?” I asked as he reached us. “We have a long evening ahead of us, and Inspector Fogg will expect us not to tarry.”


	4. Dr. Quentin Coldwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Coldwater and his new companion visit Brakebills to examine a corpse and search for further clues as to the killer's identity.

**Dr. Quentin Coldwater**

After taking tea with Margo, (she insisted I call her by that name only, even though it seemed overly-familiar considering how briefly I’d known her,) Waugh and I bid her goodbye and took a carriage to Central Park. The many wooded areas gave magicians and other magical beings the means to travel via portals and other spells without being spotted by everyday individuals. It was nearly dusk when we arrived, and the driver gave us a curious glance.

 

“You gents certain this is where you want to be left off?”

 

“Yes.” Waugh handed the man a silver dollar and walked away, leaving the man to stare, goggle-eyed, at his good fortune. I hurried to catch up with my companion.

 

“Do you think Inspector Fogg and his assistant might meet us at Brakebills?” I asked, and Waugh scoffed as he adjusted one end of the dark wool scarf he wore.

 

“I doubt it, my dear fellow. I have worked with the inspector before, and he’s like a stray dog that comes to lick up the leavings of a meal other, cleverer beasts have taken down.”

 

“That seems a bit uncharitable.”

 

“Perhaps. But you might understand after working with him. He’s an adequate magician but his station is seated far above his abilities.” Waugh walked into a copse of trees and lifted both hands, his fingers moving precisely. A portal opened in response and I followed him through it, reflecting that I hadn’t seen Brakebills since the war. The trees seemed to crowd in behind us as the portal widened on the opposite end, the exit whirling with pollen and dust motes. Warm air beckoned and I moved toward it, wanting to escape the perpetual dampness of New York City in October. Eliot reached the exit first but paused to wait for me, an action that both surprised and pleased me.

 

It was still several hours until sunset there and about mid-August if I had to guess, as time tended to slip off its axis because of the age of the wards that kept the campus hidden from prying, non-magical eyes. We crossed a lush, wide lawn that I remembered from my days as a student—a time, it seemed, which had been decades ago instead of less than four years. I glanced up at Waugh, who was heading toward the medical building as if he’d walked this way many times before. It was hard to guess the man’s age, as his handsome features distracted the eye from any details that might reveal it. I estimated that he was at least three years my senior.

 

“Did you study here?” I found myself asking, and a brief smile touched his lips.

 

“Very briefly—enough to teach me what magic is and what it is not.”

 

“I’m not sure I understand. Can you elaborate?”

 

My companion halted and faced me.

 

“You say you were recruited into the war from Brakebills?”

 

“Yes. I hadn’t completed my studies but they said I—I was unusually talented and they needed magicians to support their cause.”

 

“Their cause. And they explained it to you as a battle of good vs. evil?”

 

“It was a fight to keep magic from falling into the wrong hands. You were a spy—isn’t that what you fought for?”

 

“I didn’t fight. And I spied for my own reasons, not for any notion of good vs. evil.” The amber eyes gazed into mine. “Because magic is neither.”

 

Indignance warred with sudden shame and I scowled. Waugh turned away, the hem of his wool coat flaring.

 

“Come along, let’s not keep our corpse waiting!”

 

The medical building was smaller than most of the others on campus, with one main section that branched out into a T at its end. The left branched housed learning and research, while the right featured a variety of labs, including a morgue. I followed Waugh, my frustration over his comments darkening my mood. The building was mostly deserted this time of day, and we gave nods to the few healing students we passed. Waugh took a right and headed for a door with a small frosted glass window and no label, breaking the ward before he walked inside. The air was sharp with antiseptic, a whiff of dry ice, and the bitter attar of failed healing spells. Under all that, I caught the barest scent of decay, something not even magic could prevent once one died. My companion opened a corpse drawer.

 

“Here we are.” He uncovered the pale, naked man and took a slim leather valise from the inner pocket of his coat.

 

“What do you make of the missing hands?” He asked, pulling me from my brooding thoughts as he took a folding magnifier from the case; I recognized it a moment later as a tool for reading chi and chakras. It held three round, colored magnifiers and Waugh slid them apart at the opposite end. They fanned out like peacock feathers and my irritation bled away as I watched his slim fingers work the device.

 

“Dr. Coldwater?” He prompted, and I came back to myself to lift my own hands and sense what I could from the stumps of the dead man’s wrists.

 

“I don’t believe the killer did this to disguise the man’s identity. It’s true we can’t read anything off his hands, but his face would have been disfigured as well.” I paused, feeling more confident in my findings. “It’s as if they were removed with purpose, and done so while the poor chap was still alive.”

 

Waugh’s eyes lit up and I felt something warm in my chest like I used to when I’d pleased a much-admired professor with one of my answers during a lecture.

 

“An excellent conclusion, doctor! And what led you to it?”

 

I bent closer to one of the stumps. Fogg had left the body as they’d found it in the alley, the trunk and limbs still smeared with blood.

 

“The blood trails,” I said at last. “See here, the spatter on the shoulders? I wager if we turned him, we’d find more on his back. He fought his assailant as his hands were removed.”

 

“Agreed!” Waugh read the echo of the man’s chakras. “He died a painful death, the poor bugger.”

 

I stepped back and stared at the corpse’s face.

 

“Mr. Waugh—”

 

“Eliot.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“We’re in a morgue after sunset, examining a dead body together. Surely that warrants a bit of familiarity.”

 

“Oh. Uhm—” I felt my cheeks warm. “Yes! Yes, of course, then—Eliot. You can call me Quentin, if you like.”

 

“Very good.” He pushed a big hand through his brunette curls. “You had a question?”

 

“Oh!” I refocused my attention on the dead man. “It had occurred to me that a great deal of a magician’s strength lies in his hands and fingers. Casting takes precision; could it be the hands were removed to incapacitate this man’s casting?”

 

“If we had the missing hands, my dear doctor, I would feel more confident answering that question.” Eliot lifted one of the man’s pliant eyelids. “But look here . . . the corneas of the eyes show broken blood vessels. The webbing must have strangled the life out of him.” He moved to the end of the body tray to poke at the stiff material Fogg had left with the corpse. “A spider and a fly,” he mused, “yet most of the body is left intact.” His eyes flicked over the dead man. “I wondered, at first, if some kind of beast had entered our dimension and was responsible for this. An interdimensional lamprey, perhaps.”

 

I shuddered—lampreys like that were the length of a grown man’s arm and invaded their prey through any orifice it could find to eat it from the inside out.

 

“But now?” I asked, and Eliot shook his head.

“No beast like that would be this wasteful, to take only the hands and leave the rest to rot.”

 

“I saw lampreys during the war,” I replied, my stomach flipping with the memory. “And I agree.” I stepped closer to examine the webbing with him. “Which means this material isn’t natural—it’s casted. Granted, I’ve never seen it before, but a talented magician could devise a spell to make this.”

 

“Mmm.” Eliot used one of his spectrums to open the corpse’s mouth. He moved the greying tongue aside and frowned. “Doctor, pass me those tweezers there.” He nodded at his kit and I slid them out to hand them over. Eliot dipped them under the dead man’s tongue, moving the tips around until he withdrew a chunk of material half the size of a pinky nail. It was roughly circular and shiny with saliva.

 

“What the deuce is that?” I asked, and Eliot held it up to the light from the mini sun that illuminated the room—healing students usually found artificial light easier to see by.

 

“Permian sandstone.” Eliot held it out for me to inspect. The red cast of the stone left no doubt as to its nature, and drying blood flecked the honeycombed surface.

 

“A seacoast rock . . . but it’s used for building material as well.”

 

“Except that this piece hasn’t been treated for building. The honeycomb is still very much intact.” Eliot turned it before producing a small velvet bag and dropping it inside.

 

“But what does it tell you?” I asked. A light grew in my new friend’s eyes.

 

“It means, my dear fellow, that a visit to the seaside is in order!”

 


	5. Eliot Waugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo has her suspicions about Dr. Coldwater: Eliot faces some old ghosts.

CHAPTER 5: Eliot Waugh

 

Because of the lateness of the day, Dr. Coldwater and I portaled back to the apartment over Margo’s sundries shop. While it required a stronger spell than it did for us to portal to Brakebills, getting a carriage after sunset near Central Park was about as easy as catching the moon in a bushel basket. Margo had cold roast beef sandwiches waiting for us, and my new companion tucked into the meal with more of an appetite than I expected for someone of his build.

 

“You’re a bachelor,” Margo observed as she poured us each a glass of the dark ale we both enjoyed.

 

“Mhh?” Quentin questioned, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and Margo sipped her beer.

 

“You eat like a man does when he’s used to boarding house swill and then encounters real food.”

 

“Oh.” The doctor set his sandwich down. “That’s an excellent observation. I’ve been renting a room at Mrs. Pike’s boarding house since after the war.” He fished a watch from his pocket and thumbed the scarred silver faceplate open. “In fact, I should be getting back there. The widow Pike likes her boarders in before nine—otherwise,  it reflects poorly on her, or so she says.”

 

“You’ll never make it by nine.” I shook my head. “You’ll stay with us, we have a comfortable guest room. We don’t entertain often, but I’m sure you’ll be comfortable,” I said, and the doctor paled.

 

“Oh—no, I couldn’t possibly.” He rose all at once, around for his coat and cane, and I got to my feet as well.

 

“You won’t be imposing, and I hate to think of you getting locked out of your room because you arrived back late.”

 

Quentin’s dark eyes darted back and forth, like those of a half-tamed horse being brought to a stall and after a moment, I realized his anxiety.

 

“Neither Margo or I will press you on any details of your private life, doctor,” I said, and some of the panic left his eyes.

 

“Forgive me,” he said at last. I’ve always been poor company, and I’m afraid it’s only gotten worse since the war. I—I’m rather used to being alone.”

 

“Nonsense! Margo and I are very selective about the company we keep and would have bid you good day when we met if we found you tedious or dull. Right, Margo?”

 

“We aren’t the kind to suffer any fools,” Margo nodded. “And Widow Pike’s place isn’t the most cheerful or comfortable place, from what I’ve seen and heard.”

 

“I made due. She’s a kind enough woman.” The doctor shifted his weight. “I’m afraid I don’t have any toiletries.”

 

“I have extra, as well as a clean sleeping gown and robe. Now, quit fretting and fussing, the matter is settled. Have another sandwich, my dear fellow, there’s plenty.”

 

“Thank you,” Quentin nodded, sipping his ale. Margo leaned forward a bit.

 

“I know we said we wouldn’t pry, but since you brought it up, have you always been a bachelor?”

 

The young man’s cheeks became a study in scarlet.

 

“Well—yes, I suppose. I’ve always focused on my studies so there was never much time for dating at university. Since the war, my odd appearance doesn’t exactly draw any interested eyes. People stare, but it’s curiosity and fear, not romantic attraction.”

 

I pulled out my cigarette case, withdrew a smoke, and ignited the tip with a snap of my thumb and forefinger, squinting at the doctor through the plume of smoke I exhaled.

 

“Really Quentin, you talk like you should be ringing bells in some abandoned French tower and shrieking about wanting sanctuary.”

 

“Maybe I should.” He gave a small, wry smile that told me he didn’t do this often—it was more like a grimace.

 

“You’re not unattractive,” Margo spoke up, probably knowing it would sound less odd coming from her than me, although I shared the sentiment. “And there’s plenty of ladies in our community who have their own unique physical qualities. They’d be happy to be on your arm.”

 

Quentin cleared his throat.

 

“Ah—thank you, Margo. I appreciate your kind words.” He drained his ale and wiped his mouth. “If you’d show me my room, I’d like to change my clothes and get some sleep.”

 

“Sure.” I got to my feet and led him down the hallway to our guest room. After leaving him with some toiletries, a clean gown, and a robe, I returned to Margo to share one more drink, only to find her grinning.

 

“What are you looking so smug about?” I asked.

 

“Because I love being right.” She poured us each a drink.

 

“About?”

 

“Something I suspected about our Dr. Coldwater.” She passed a plate of chocolates filled with brandied cherries—my favorite—and I took one.

 

“Oh?”

 

“He prefers the company of men,” Margo said, and I nearly dropped the chocolate in my lap.

 

“You don’t know that!” I chided, and Margo chuckled.

 

“Gods above, El, has it been so long that you don’t know your own anymore? And what’s more, I think he’s attracted to you!”

 

A filament of excitement glowed in my lower belly and I struggled to douse it.

 

“Oh, nonsense! You just enjoy playing matchmaker.” I took a long pull on my ale and she narrowed her eyes at me.

 

“How many months has it been since Michael? 15? 18?”

 

“Leave that alone,” I scowled, and Margo scoffed.

 

“Do you really think you can scare me with your Doberman growl? I’m not some stray kitten, and you don’t fool me. How long are you going to allow Michael’s memory to keep you celibate?”  
 

I closed my eyes but that only brought my dead lover’s face into sharp focus: his wavy blond hair, his gleaming blue eyes, his engaging smile. Margo’s small hand rested on my arm.

 

“El. You know it wasn’t your fault.”

 

“I think of him more often than I’d like,” I admitted, opening my eyes. Michael had been a linguistics specialist in our community and, like Quentin, we’d met during a case where his skills had been helpful. We grew close, then intimate—until the enemy I’d been pursuing cast an assassin’s spell on him and set him on me and Margo. The spell had poisoned him, mind and body, turning his blue eyes the color of spoiled milk and causing his skin to erupt with boils that leaked a putrid ochre. With no way to reverse the spell and our lives in immediate peril, I’d been forced to destroy him with the telekinetic powers I kept secret from everyone but Margo. Even our people tended to be mistrustful of such abilities, as power that wasn’t learned or bound by spellwork was deemed unpredictable and not to be trusted. The cracking sound Michael’s neck had made as I’d force-twisted his head around nearly 360 degrees made me wonder if my peers weren’t correct in their beliefs.

 

“I imagine you do.” Margo squeezed my arm with sympathy, then measured it with her usual dose of hard truth. “But there’s a time to remember him with love instead of how you felt when you had no choice to destroy him. He was dead already, El . . . Gareth Clay saw to that when he cast the assassin spell because you were getting too close to breaking his human smuggling ring. You saved hundreds of young magicians from being sold into underground slavery and made sure that bastard paid for what he’d done. Michael had a part in that too . . . maybe it’s time to remember him with honor and notice what’s here now.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the rear hallway before rising and gathering up the dishes, which she took into the kitchen. I lit another cigarette and blew smoke rings across the room, each of them the color of my dead lover’s spellbound, empty eyes.

 


	6. Interlude--Eliot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late-night interlude reveals some truths about Eliot's new friend.

**Interlude: Eliot**

 

Much later, as more ale finally carried me off to sleep, I was again jerked awake by cries of either fear or pain—I couldn’t be sure. I stumbled from my bed and pulled on a robe as Margo sat up in her own bed on the other side of the room.

 

“What the hell?” She questioned sleepily, and I put a hand up.

 

“Stay put. I’ll see to it.” I hurried out and down the back hallway, suddenly aware the sounds were emanating from the guest room. Quentin hadn’t warded the door and I was both surprised and touched by his trust as I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

 

Quentin was writhing on the bed, his nightshirt twisted up around his hips, the sheets pulled free of their corners, wads of their fabric balled in both hands. The cries were wordless but full of such pain that my stomach clenched in sympathy. I lit a lamp with a motion of my left hand and its light showed me the doctor’s face, tense and slick with sweat and tears, even though he was still asleep. I leaned over him.

 

“Dr. Coldwater?” I touched his shoulder. “Quentin!”

 

The young man came awake with a shriek that made me flinch backward. His dark eyes seemed sightless for a moment, locked in the grip of whatever he’d dreamed of, then they met mine. As he became more aware, shame filled his expression.

 

“Eliot . . .? Gods above, I’m sorry.” He sat up and ran a hand over his face. “I woke you.”

 

“It’s all right, I don’t always sleep soundly myself.” I went to the wash basin to fetch a cloth, which I soaked with cool water. Quentin looked almost boyish in the lamplight, and I gave in to the impulse to wipe his face for him. He jerked back and I sat on the edge of the bed. “Easy, easy . . . I won’t hurt you.” I wiped his smooth cheeks, removing the drying sweat and tear tracks. His shame was radiating off him in waves and I set the cloth aside. “The Great War must have been very difficult.”

 

“Yes. I’ve done almost everything I can to forget its events, but as you can see . . .” He looked down at the twisted sheet in his hands and tried to smooth them out. “Look at the mess I’ve made.”

 

“As messes go, I’ve seen worse.” I rose. “Wait here a moment,” I told him before ducking into the kitchen to grab a bottle of brandy and two tumblers before going back to him. He’d arranged his nightshirt back around his thighs and was tucking the bedsheet around the mattress corners.

 

“Don’t bother with that, my good fellow, it’s all right. Here, have a drink.” I poured him a tipple and he accepted the glass, sipping from it a few times.

 

“Thank you, it’s excellent.”

 

“I usually spare no expense when it comes to my liquor. Margo complains about my expensive tastes, even though she denies that she shares them.” I took a sip of the brandy.

 

“You said you and Margo left Brakebills after only one semester?” Quentin asked after a few beats of silence.

 

“Indeed. It isn’t the right path for every magical adept.”

 

“But you found your way there like most students do?”

 

“Yes. I chased one of my father’s milk cows down into a dry wash and into a cornfield. I got lost and the next thing I knew, I was pushing my way out of the stalks and onto the front lawn of the school. You?”

 

Quentin took another sip of brandy.

 

“I—I was a special case. I didn’t find Brakebills—they came for me, instead.” He paused, turning the brandy tumbler over in his fine-boned hands. “You see . . . I was—I was in an asylum.” His dark eyes flicked away from mine. “My father raised me on his own after my mother died of smallpox. I was three and I don’t remember much about her. But from the time I was small, I wasn’t—uhm—usual, I suppose the word is. I was a good student, especially with creative writing and figures, but I didn’t enjoy playing with the other boys, who liked to scrap and play stickball. I liked to read and wear costumes and daydream. When I was sixteen, my father sent me to a mental facility in Brooklyn, not far from where I grew up. He insisted they evaluate me because I wasn’t maturing properly. I was very frightened, and then one night the Brakebills professors came for me. I realized then that I was a magical adept and that’s why I was so different. Two years later, I left my studies to fight in the Great War.”

 

I paused and did the calculations.

 

“That would make you 22 years old?”

 

“I had a birthday in July,” Quentin nodded.

 

“My Gods,” I muttered. “You’re two years younger than I, and—”

 

“I know. I look like an old man.”

 

“That’s not what I was going to say!”

 

“Sorry, go on?”

 

“What I was going to say is that I find your courage extremely impressive. You were just a boy when you joined the war.”

 

“I felt like I had no right to refuse. Magic had given me so much—a way out of Brooklyn, out of a future as some bored accountant or law firm clerk, an extended stay at the asylum my father sent me to. There were no other healers that specialized in battle magic, and our ranks were dwindling.”

 

“So it’s the war you dream about,” I deduced, and Quentin drained the rest of his brandy with one long swallow.

 

“Certain aspects of it.” One hand rose to his silver hair and finger-combed a tangle.

 

“Margo told me she delivered herbs and potions to a magical clinic during the war and that she saw a man with hair like yours. He’d fought in the fairy realm, but the doctor told Margo he’d gone mad there. She doesn’t believe he survived because she never saw him there again.”

 

Silence spun out as Quentin stared down into his empty glass.

 

“She’s right. There were ten of us that traveled into the fairy realm. Three returned. One died at the hospital. The other, an older man who acted as our general, ended his own life a few weeks later. I’m the last of us and I fear I’m going mad—” Emotion broke the last word in two and Quentin clapped a hand over his mouth. I took the glass from his other hand and set it aside before touching his arm.

 

“You aren’t,” I said, leaving my hand there, just above his elbow, when he didn’t flinch away. “What you are is traumatized by your memories because you choose to avoid other people. They’re all up here—” I tapped his temple—” “with nowhere to fly to but your dreams. I want you to know, Quentin, that you can tell me about your experiences if you wish, and I’ll keep them. I won’t even share them with Margo if you say not to.”

 

The young doctor looked up at me.

 

“Why would you want to help me, to keep memories that I can barely stand?”

 

_Why indeed . . ._

“Eliot?” Quentin asked, prompting me from my thoughts, and I patted his arm.

 

“Many hands lighten the burden, my dear fellow. Now, try to get some sleep.” I glanced out the window and guessed that sunrise was only a few hours away. “We have a long day ahead of us.”


	7. Dr. Quentin Coldwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin travel to the New Jersey shore to search for clues as to the identity of the killer.

The next morning, as we breakfasted on soft-boiled eggs, toast, and a strong, exotic Turkish coffee, neither Eliot or Margo mentioned what had occurred overnight, for which I was grateful. They treated me as they had since we’d met, and as Eliot finished his food, he gave me a bright smile that made him look boyish and lit up his amber eyes with an almost incandescent quality.

 

“Are you ready to travel to New Jersey? I’m almost certain that’s where the sandstone came from.”

 

“The coastline runs for miles, how do we know where to begin?” I asked, sipping my coffee, and Eliot pushed his plate aside, empty all but for a pile of toast crusts stacked off to one side.

 

“Have you heard of Bradley Beach?”

 

“That used to be part of the Neptune Township.”

 

“Yes, only now it’s incorporated and its own entity. They offered sea bathing access to locals and tourists all summer, but it’s been closed since September.” He lit a cigarette. “The absence of people, coupled with the recent improvements made to the shoreline, could make it convenient for a killer to hide evidence there.”

 

“Then why not just do so at the riverfront?” I asked.

 

“Too many tourists, and they come all year round. That statue they erected in the harbor brings scores of people here each month, and that’s too many eyes for someone looking to conceal their murderous motives.” He stood. “Come along, the days are getting shorter, so we shouldn’t delay.” He kissed Margo’s cheek as he floated his plate and cup to the nearby sink. “Do try not to throttle any of your shop’s patrons today, you tend to be less patient when I’m not there to rein in your prickliness.”

 

“You love my prickliness,” Margo drawled, accepting his kiss. “Watch over each other on your travels.”

 

“We will,” Eliot nodded as he opened a portal and waited for me to fetch my coat, scarf, and cane. A moment later we left the comfort of the apartment behind and found ourselves on Bradley Beach. It was deserted and windswept, the lowering grey the same color as the ocean, which was topped with dollops of whitecaps that reared and plunged like miniature steeds. The tip of my cane sunk into the damp sand.

 

“It doesn’t look like much,” I observed, and Eliot narrowed his eyes against a bracing wind that flung granules of sand into our faces.

 

“Which makes it the ideal place for a killer to perform his dirty deeds, my dear doctor!” Eliot removed the piece of Permian sandstone from his pocket and opened the lid of the small metal container he’d kept it in. He passed a hand over the stone, murmuring, and I recognized a magnetic charm both in language and incantation. The rock rose out of the container and zipped away like a bullet, its outer edges glowing orange. Eliot nodded.

 

“It will lead us to its source. Hurry along now!” He followed after it, his loping stride a bit encumbered by the deep, shifting sand. I kept up, determined to not be left behind. I used my cane like a lever, digging the tip deep into the sand and hauling myself forward, taking the longest strides possible. Eliot kept glancing back at me, but I waved him on.

 

“Go! I’m all right!”

 

He paused only a moment before hurrying on. The stone sailed down the chilly coast before dropping down to vanish under a decrepit wooden pier. It stood at the end of the man-made beach, where huge boulders and craggy outcroppings of smaller rocks marked the end of the safe stretch of sand. A large sign that read KEEP OFF had been jammed between the rocks and the pier, and Eliot ducked underneath the discolored wood.

 

“This way!”

 

The dock was tall enough that I barely had to stoop to step under its cracked planks. Large wolf spiders, common enough near bodies of water where prey is plentiful, scuttled around the pier’s underside to hide in the cracks and crevices as I passed by. They didn’t frighten me, as I’d seen predatory spiders the size of full-grown horses in the fairy realm, but I moved ahead with a shiver of distaste at how silently they vanished.

 

“Quentin! There’s a cavern ahead!” Eliot called, and I hurried to catch up. He’d set a delay on the magnetic spell, and the sandstone buzzed in midair like a furious bumblebee. At the pier’s end, some of the supporting rock had crumbled away, leaving a hole about four feet tall and only slightly wider. The entrance was blacker than an old fountain pen’s nub. I swallowed against a sudden spate of anxiety.

 

“We’re going in there?”

 

“Indeed we must, if we’re going to find out why this stone was in the dead man’s mouth.”

 

“But suppose it’s too small once we climb inside? Or our presence causes a cave in?”

 

“My time as a spy taught me to fly in the face of suppose.” He grabbed my wrist and tugged me through the gap as he stooped down low to enter. I gave a startled yelp of dismay, but Eliot was intent on the stone as it raced ahead of us. The cavern’s walls shut out the wind, for which I was grateful, but the cavern’s absolute darkness and fetid odor made me balk. I straightened up, rapped my head on the low, rough ceiling, and Eliot reached back to grip my wrist.

 

“Steady, doctor!” He said, and the squeeze he gave my wrist reassured me enough to take a slow, deep breath.

 

“Sorry. I was momentarily disoriented.”

 

“I understand. It’s darker than the inside of a black cat’s asshole in here! Cast a Chackril’s Sun for us?”

 

I nodded and pulled my wrist from his grip before pressing my palms together and murmuring in Arabic as I slowly twisted and pulled them away from each other again, letting the mini sun grow between them. I set it free and it glowed as it bounced against the cavern’s ceiling, illuminating the space and Eliot’s stooped form. He lifted his gaze and pointed at the far end of the cavern.

 

“Gods above, look!”

 

The cavern’s ceiling sloped upward and the rear expanded to nearly twenty feet across, although it ceased in a dead end about forty paces from where we stood. Eliot headed toward the blind wall, straightening his spine as he was able. The floor of the cavern was a mix of sand, crushed sandstone, and dried seaweed that had washed into the space after countless storms. Eliot crouched down and scooped up a handful of sand before letting it sift between his long, slender fingers.

 

“Be a good fellow and bring that sun closer? Yes, there we are,” he nodded as I brought the light closer. He pulled a thin metal tool from inside his vest and expanded it with a flick of his wrist and used one end to search the floor. “Ah!” He exclaimed after a moment, pulling a white fragment of bone from the sand. “Look here, Quentin!” He held it up to the light. “It appears to be a human distal phalanx of the right hand, judging by the angle of the tip.”

 

“A finger bone! And all three bodies found were missing their hands.”

 

“Indeed they were . . .” Eliot crouch-walked as he used his speculum to unearth more bones. Most of them were fragments and had an oddly polished appearance. I found a thumb with the first three joints attached by a ragged line of decayed tendon, but the bones themselves had that same polished look.

 

“Curious,” I muttered, reaching into my inner coat pocket for my spectacles, slipping them on to get a closer look. Eliot glanced over his shoulder.

 

“What?”

 

“These bones . . . it’s as if they spent years being polished by the tide, the same way water smooths sea glass, yet if these bones are from our victims, they can’t have been here more than a few weeks! The first body was only found about a month ago.”

 

“A clever conclusion,” Eliot nodded. “And if these are the same bones, which I daresay they are, what do you think polished them? Think logically, doctor, put magic aside for the moment and use your scientific mind.”

 

“Some predators are known to lick or suck bones clean,” I said after a moment. “Large predators especially, such as big cats and omnivorous apes.”

 

“Precisely.” My colleague nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. “It seems we’ve found the den of our enemy, where it brought its prey to feast on the hands before bringing the bodies into Manhattan to dump them.”

 

“But why only the hands?” I asked. “Why leave the rest?”

 

Eliot’s reply was cut off, lost in a sea of sound, one that made us clap our hands over our ears as the terrible squealing sound threatened to render us deaf. We gaped at the source—the same type of webbing we’d seen on the murder victims was now sealing the mouth of the cavern as if knitted by invisible needles. The ground beneath our feet began to bubble, as if it had sprung some inner leak. I gasped in surprise as cold seawater swirled around my ankles. Eliot gave me a shove.

 

“Go! Toward the entrance!”

 

I obeyed, but the webbing sealed the cavern opening before I could reach it. I backed away, shivering, as the frigid water continued to rise all around us.

 


	8. Dr. Quentin Coldwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery deepens: Margo reveals a shocking secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for returning! Sorry about the late update: medical issues have kept me from writing on the reg. Hope you enjoy this installment!

The webbing was stiff and unyielding under my fingertips as I tried to undo or destroy it with several different spells, but each failed and the seawater threatened to paralyze my feet with frostbite. At the other end of the cavern, Eliot tested the walls for a weak spot where we might make our escape, but I could tell he wasn’t having any luck. I hissed through my teeth in discomfort as the water soaked my calves, then my knees.

 

“We have a problem here!” I called back to Eliot, who sloshed through the water to reach me.

 

“Our enemy must have realized we discovered this place!” He tried several permeation spells on the webbing, but it only seemed to absorb the magic and make it stronger. The water rose past my thighs and I gasped.

 

“It’s rising faster! We’ll be treading water in a min—” My words were cut off as the frigid water began to agitate and then spin, as if the center of the cavern floor had fallen away to create a whirlpool, and I was yanked off my feet. “Eliot!” I cried out as the force of the water pulled me backward, the temperature of the freezing stuff making me feel like I was swimming in a sea of needles. I went under, choked, then resurfaced, catching glimpses of Eliot as he tried to keep his footing and reach me. Dirty whitecaps, edged with sand, blinded me each time I tried to remain afloat, and then a red flash of light, so bright that it would have made me cover my eyes if I hadn’t been trying to keep myself from drowning, filled the space. I was dragged under again and tossed around until I lost most of my senses. My lungs burned and my legs kicked almost of their own accord as my brain whirled.

 

_Once more upon the waters!_ It seized upon a Lord Byron quote, one I read often in my boyhood, when books had made better companions to me than my peers.

 

_Yet once more . . ._

My consciousness wavered and was then swept away, swept up in some kind of powerful surge, the sound of the surf in my ears, pounding, calling me, calling my name . . .

 

“Quentin? Quentin! For the sake of the Gods, come back!”

 

I came back to myself quite suddenly, coughing up gritty water, most of my body splayed out in the damp sand, my head in Eliot’s lap. I managed to force open my salt-swollen eyes to see the webbing that had covered the cavern’s entrance slashed in two, as if by a sharp surgical blade, the edges glowing red.

 

“What happened?” I asked, wincing as my lungs burned at the intake of air the question required. I felt one of Eliot’s big, elegant hands in my hair and then it jerked away as I spoke.

 

“You’re all right! Gods above, Quentin, I thought you’d drowned!”

 

“A very near thing,” I said as Eliot helped me sit up. We were both soaked and shivering.

 

“How did we escape?” I asked.

 

Eliot paused to finger-comb his dark curls.

 

“What do you remember?”

 

“Very little—the water spinning like a whirlpool, a red flash—but that might have been my imagination. Did you see what happened to the webbing?”

 

“It must have failed—the spell that created it, that is. I saw the flash as well.” His eyes flicked away from mine.

 

“Eliot?”

 

“Never mind.” He moved me aside and then helped me to my feet. “Fortunately, we’ve both survived the attack, but it clearly means we were either followed here or were discovered by the killer when he or it returned here, perhaps with another victim.”

 

“What do we do now?” I asked, my teeth chattering, and Eliot beckoned me to follow as he created a portal.

 

“We change into dry clothing and then report what we’ve discovered here to Inspector Fogg.”

 

***

 

Our visit to the inspector was delayed, as when we returned to the apartment over Margo’s shop, Eliot was overcome by a sudden fit of exhaustion. Margo took charge of him right away, advising me to change and to put the kettle on. I obeyed despite my fears that Eliot had water in his lungs or some internal injury. After washing the sand from my hair and changing into clean clothes, I set about filling the kettle and making myself a small plate of cheese and crackers. I nibbled at a slice of cheddar as I turned the events at the beach over in my head. Eliot claimed to have seen the red flash but could give no explanation. Granted, he’d been trying to keep us alive, but his head had been above water, at least from what I remembered.

 

As a magician, I knew that spells could fail without warning. The environment, the way a spell was cast, and even the emotional state of the caster could poke holes in a spell and cause it to collapse. Still, something gnawed at me and I gave it mental chase until the kettle’s whistle shrieked, jarring me from my thoughts. Margo came in as I was setting up the tea service and she paused under the alcove, her large, dark eyes surveying the scene.

 

“I figured beyond putting the kettle on, you’d have no idea what a kitchen is for.”

 

“I’m a bachelor, remember? I don’t have anyone to make my tea for me.”

 

“It’s almost impressive,” she nodded as I filled the sugar bowl with cubes. “So. Are you all right?”

 

“I think so. What about Eliot? Do you know what happened? I think I should examine him.”

 

“That’s not necessary.”

 

“Of course it is! He nearly passed out in the stairwell!”

 

“It was probably delayed shock, Quentin. He just needs a bit of rest.”

 

“Still, as well as you know him, I’m worried, and an examination would ease my mind.” I set the sugar bowl aside and headed for the doorway when Margo stepped forward and seized my elbow.

 

“Quentin, wait! Please.”

 

The word gave me pause and I turned to face her.

 

“What is it? Why don’t you want me to examine him when he might be badly injured?”

 

Margo bit her lower lip and the thought I’d been chasing shoved its way to the forefront of my brain. I made the connection all at once.

 

“The webbing—that flash! Eliot did it somehow, didn’t he? It’s why he’s ill now! Why did he lie to me?”

 

“Quentin, it’s complicated and it’s not for me to speak about! Very few people in our community do, and for good reason.”

 

I thought about Eliot’s hand in my hair.

 

“Margo, you and Eliot can trust me. Please—I trusted you with my truth because I sensed it was the right choice. I want to help!”

 

Margo met my gaze for a moment before nodding to a chair.

 

“All right, sit down, and I’ll tell you what I can. You’re right . . . El and I have no reason not to trust you.”

 

I sat, pouring her a cup of tea and then one for myself. She accepted it but didn’t sip.

 

“Eliot told me what happened after you got pulled under in the cave. He said he tried to reach you but the current was too strong. He thought he’d already lost you.” She paused. “Have you ever known a magician with abilities that don’t come from ambient magic or from casting? Like psychics, travelers, and telekinetics?”

 

“No. Magicians with abilities like that usually aren’t accepted or trusted because the magical energy is unpred—” I broke off as the meaning of her question struck me. “Margo, are you saying—Eliot, that he—”

 

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” She added two cubes of sugar to her tea. “Eliot and I didn’t leave Brakebills to practice magic on our own. We left to escape whatever punishment the staff would have handed down because Eliot killed another student with his telekinesis.”


	9. Eliot Waugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot recalls the past; he and Quentin have a moment alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back! I hope you enjoy this installment. Please be warned, there may be triggers for assault in this chapter.

 

 

I awoke to the sound of Margo’s voice revealing my telekinesis to Quentin, and my head spun with the possible implications. The silence following her words made a fist of dismay tighten around my heart and I rose from my bed to don a robe before creeping to the doorway to listen.

 

“He killed someone?” Quentin said at last, and I closed my eyes a moment as his tone revealed curiosity instead of horror or judgment. As Margo began the tale, my mind drifted back to that night at Brakebills, when my future had changed forever.

 

I’d always been aware of my telekinetic abilities, ever since they’d presented themselves at puberty, but since my parents were God-fearing non-magicals who raised chickens and ran a tiny dry goods store on the edge of what most people considered the civilized world, I kept the phenomenon well hidden. Even the professors at Brakebills were wary about what they considered the undisciplined side of magic and kept students who displayed such abilities apart from the others. Margo found out the truth one evening when we were returning to the campus after a pub crawl and a young street tough tried to mug us. I tossed the miscreant into a pile of empty boxes in nearly thirty feet away without touching him when he pulled a knife and threatened Margo. I fled afterward, fearing she’d hate me for keeping my power from her, but she chased me down and twisted my ear like a furious nanny until I listened, shocked, at her reaction. She understood, and even more surprisingly, agreed to keep my secret at Brakebills. I knew what she risked if she was caught harboring such a thing, but my friend had only given a delicate snort and a roll of her eyes when I said so.

 

“Why should I support their prejudice, Eliot?” She’d asked. “As magicians, we live on the fringe of society as it is. I refuse to make that separation any thinner because you have an ability you never asked for!”

 

Margo and I became inseparable after that and leaned on each other during our first year at Brakebills. Then, barely a week before we were to advance to our next year, we threw a party at our cottage on campus. Alcohol and magic flowed in equal amounts, and I found myself fielding romantic advancements from several different male students. At one point, a strapping fifth year approached me and suggested we take a stroll in the evening air, to his room at the healer’s haven.

 

Mind you, I was barely twenty, drunk on good wine and independence, so I agreed. We struck out across the campus, but I soon found myself being forced into the ground’s complicated hedge maze, drunk and disoriented. My companion then became more than insistent about a physical encounter, pulling me down into the well-manicured grass. He tore my shirt even as I protested and tried to rise, but then a brief, uttered spell from him had me nude. I panicked, crying out for help, and the bigger man’s hand clamped around my throat as he forced me back onto the ground. He squeezed until I had to struggle to breathe and dark curtains drew across the corners of my vision. My companion, who had been so charming at the cottage, was now growling about me being a tease. His strong hands turned me then, and I became aware of my bare knees sinking into the moist grass as he shoved them under my thighs and my chin smacked against the ground.

 

The darkness threatened again but then the air around us seemed to warp and contract. My vision changed abruptly, as if I was seeing through a lens dyed crimson, and I felt my mind flex like it was using some powerful but heretofore-untapped muscle. The healing student shouted, rose into the air, and a loud crack sounded out as his head twisted around until it faced the opposite direction. That muscle flexed again and I envisioned a mighty fire. The man’s body burst into flames at the same time and then dropped to the ground, crackling and burning, as I sat up with blood pouring from my nose. Of course, I knew what I had done, even if the telekinesis had likely been triggered in my mind’s attempt to protect myself. I pulled my knees up against my chest and wrapped my arms around them, watching the man’s body burn, until Margo found me there a half hour later.

 

Margo knew we had to leave right then. Even though the fifth year had tried to rape me, using telekinesis and killing him would have surely meant life in prison at a cold stone structure somewhere in Antarctica, where our community housed murderers and magical deviants. We buried the ashes on the banks of the Hudson, in thick black mud, where no spell could locate them, and fled to Europe. We stayed in Senlis, a small village about an hour from Paris, until the Great War of Magic began. I became a spy and Margo offered her healing and medicinal abilities, assisting with the sick and injured. I knew she worried that I’d vanish or be captured, but spy work was the only way I could still use magic without alerting those who were undoubtedly looking for me. Once the war ended, Margo and I returned to America and settled in New York City, cloaked ourselves and her sundries shop in protective wards, and I began to make my living as a consulting detective.

 

“Assault is never the fault of the victim!”

 

Quentin’s words, stated sharply, pulled me from thoughts of the past. I crept closer to the alcove.

 

“I agree,” Margo replied, “but because of the telekinesis and because we’d hidden it, it’s not likely the dean or any of the magical authorities would have seen it that way. They might have even blamed El because he was drinking and went with that fifth year willingly.”

 

“Once Eliot refused him, that should have been the end of it!” Quentin argued, and tears stung my eyes, swift and sudden, at his defense of me. I’d lied and kept things from this man, who had obviously suffered during the war, yet he still found room in his heart to understand why.

 

_There’s so much more to you than you know, my dear Quentin Coldwater,_ I thought to myself before I withdrew and allowed Margo to finish telling the tale I could barely bring myself to think of.

 

Sometime later, I awoke from a doze as a hesitant knock on the door roused me. I knew it was Quentin, as Margo wouldn’t have needed to knock.

 

“Come in,” I called, sitting up. The door opened and Quentin stepped in, carrying a tea service.

 

“I thought you might want a little something.”

 

“How thoughtful,” I remarked as he set the tray across my lap. The porcelain kettle chuffed a pleasant-smelling steam, and a plate piled with shortbread cookies sat next to it. “Cookies?”

 

“There’s a bakery down the way—sometimes I get a sweet tooth.” He pulled up a chair. “Are you feeling better?”

 

“Yes. Quite. Quentin . . . I know what Margo told you.”

 

“Only because I mostly figured it out for myself that it was you who broke the webbing at the cavern. I hope you aren’t angry with her.”

 

“No, I trust her judgment. But I am sorry I lied to you. I was worried you might not understand.”

 

“About what happened at Brakebills or about your telekinesis?”

 

“Both.” I nibbled a cookie as Quentin poured a cup of tea for me, and I was amused to see that he had already learned how I liked it: two sugars, no cream—I abhorred that practice and thought it best left to those who couldn’t let go of their stuffy British ways.

 

“Well . . . I was a bit surprised but I do understand why you hid it from me. After all, we haven’t known each other very long and you had no way of knowing how I’d react.” He poured a cup of tea for himself. “How well can you control it?”

 

“Not very. It usually acts on its own when I’m under severe stress.”

 

“Like in the cavern,” Quentin observed, and I cleared my throat. I knew he hadn’t seen me use my ability then because the water had already taken him under, but I knew exactly when and why I had been able to use it.

 

_And damn him for it,_ I thought to myself as I sipped my tea.

 

“I wanted to give you a proper thank you for saving my life. I would have drowned if not for you.” His left hand, smaller than my own and so finely shaped, reached out to touch my fingers. Magic raced back and forth between the contact points, making goosebumps chase up my spine.

 

“It was nothing,” I replied, despite Quentin’s touch being suddenly everything I needed—more than food, more than good wine, more than my supply of laudanum. “I couldn’t let you come to harm because of me.”

 

Quentin’s hand lingered.

 

“I also wanted to tell you that I believe what happened at Brakebills wasn’t your fault.”

 

_It’s not your fault_. Mike’s sightless eyes, whiter than a winter moon, flashed in my memory at the words and my fingers gave a sudden spasm, clenching at the duvet.

 

“Eliot? Are you all right?”

 

“Yes, fine.” I steeled myself against the concern in his voice, his touch, and those damnable dark eyes before pulling my hand away from his. “And thank you for saying so.”

 

Quentin’s expression shifted but to his credit, he didn’t give any outward sign of disappointment.

 

“Well,” he said at last, rising. “I suppose we should both get some rest before we see the inspector.” He lifted the tray but left me with my cup. “Sleep well.”

 

“Goodnight,” I nodded as I watched him leave and close the door with a swing of his foot. I sat there, the cup all but forgotten in my hand, as I chased the sensation Quentin’s touch had caused.

 


	10. Dr. Quentin Coldwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Quentin visit Inspector Fogg: Margo formulates a new plan in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back to visit! I hope you enjoy this new installment. Comments and kudos are magic!

Chapter 10: Dr. Quentin Coldwater

 

Eliot and I had time for no more than a hurried cup of coffee before we hastened out to catch a carriage to Inspector Fogg’s office near Central Park. My companion seemed himself again, for which I was grateful. He sat as if content, looking resplendent in a dark blue suit and long, dark tweed overcoat to ward off the morning chill. I wore my watchman’s cap to hide my hair, a habit I’d formed after the war. The fall day was promising, with a clear sky, and it was still early enough that the moon was still visible, curved and bone white, like the fingernail clipping of a dead man. As we approached the inspector’s block, Eliot spoke up.

 

“I’ve been pondering something, Quentin, and would appreciate your input.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“It was my thought that you should room with Margo and me. We’re working on this case full time, after all, and it’s a waste of time for you to shuffle back and forth between our loft and the boarding house.”

 

My heart lifted like a bolo bouncer and I cleared my throat.

 

“You want me to move in? Have you talked to Margo about it?”

“Of course, and she agrees that it would be more convenient for everyone. She approves of you, and believe me, that’s not a common occurrence.”

 My mind whirled. I had always lived alone, ever since leaving the hospital in Brooklyn and then at Brakebills. I preferred it that way, in fact, especially since after the war and how it had changed me. I’d never truly thought about how much I had isolated myself until meeting Eliot and Margo, and now the thought of returning to the boarding house alone filled me with dismay.

 

“Quentin?” Eliot’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Are you all right? Have I offended you?”

 

“No! No, not at all. Do you think your neighbors might find it scandalous, though?”

 

Eliot chuckled and flashed me a brief smile that made my heart bounce again, like a yo-yo snapped upward on a greased string.

 

“Thanks to our wards, the neighbors are barely aware of our existence.” His expression softened. “How thoughtful you are, though, to worry about our reputation.”

 

“I just don’t want to put you out—”

 

“It’s no trouble. I—that is—Margo and I, would enjoy having you.”

 

I felt my cheeks warm despite my attempt to remain composed.

 

“Then I accept. Thank you, Eliot.”

 

The carriage jounced to a halt then and we found ourselves in front of Inspector Fogg’s office building. It was a stately brownstone with a view of the park, which was rumored to expand in the future. Eliot paid the driver and we climbed the steps to the building. Inside, the door to Fogg’s second-floor office was warded, and Eliot made a few inquiring tuts with both hands. They allowed us in and Alice Quinn, Fogg’s sullen young assistant, glanced up from the reception desk.

 

“He’s expecting you,” she said before returning to her appointment ledger, and I doffed my cap at her in response.

 

“Thank you, Miss Quinn.” Eliot nodded as we moved past the desk and toward Fogg’s half-open door.

 

“Come in, gentlemen!” He called. As we stepped inside, I saw that the room was dominated by a massive oak desk that would have seated three Brakebills students. Glowing mini suns hung in each corner, illuminating the surface of the desk and accentuating its polished finish.

 

“Have a seat,” Fogg offered as he glanced at my cane. “I hope you didn’t have any trouble with steps outside?”

 

“No, I’m all right.” I set my cane aside, reflecting that I’d barely used it on the climb.

 

“Coffee?”

 

“I’d like to get right to it,” Eliot replied, taking a drawstring sack from inside his coat and tossing it onto the desk. Fogg frowned and undid the string to pour out the contents. The distal finger bones we’d collected at the cave scattered across the velvet-green blotter. Fogg poked through them with the tip of a fountain pen.

 

“Bones,” he said after a moment, and Eliot’s eyes tipped to mine before he nodded.

 

“Your deductive abilities astound me.”

 

Laughter bubbled up my throat but I managed to swallow it. Fogg ignored the remark and continued to poke at the bone fragments.

 

“They appear to be human.”

 

Eliot gave a nod.

 

“Quentin and I believe they belong to the missing hands of our victims.”

 

Fogg held one up and crooked a finger at one of the mini suns, beckoning it closer.

 

“Interesting. Where were they located?”

 

Eliot briefed Fogg about the caverns, downplaying our escape. While the inspector enjoyed stating the obvious, he was curious too, and my companion knew it.

 

“This creature, whatever it may be, will likely find a new den now that it knows we are close on its heels. We may even be able to track it if we hurry. I’ll send some of my men down there to continue your work.”

 

Eliot drew himself up with a frown.

 

“Excuse me, inspector, but _we_ would like to continue our work.”

 

“I’m sure I can appreciate that, Mr. Waugh, but your discovery of the creature’s lair is more than enough information for my team to go on now.”

 

Eliot’s fists clenched and his expression roused me from my chair. I was loathe to speak up in most situations, but this was a disrespect I couldn’t let pass.

 

“Inspector! If not for Eliot’s work, you wouldn’t have any evidence to go on! You can’t just dismiss us now, not when we’ve found proof that this creature is killing and eating our kind!”

 

I saw Eliot glance at me, surprise obvious in his eyes, but then Fogg pinned me with a somber, unblinking glare.

 

“I sometimes forget how young you are . . . and that it may have been a mistake to bring you on board this case.”

 

“Balthazar’s balls!” Eliot snapped. “Quentin’s magical and reasoning abilities far exceed anyone you currently have working for you!”

 

“Perhaps, Mr. Waugh. Nevertheless, you are both dismissed. I may call you back to this case at a later date as needed but for now—” He handed us each a small leather purse of gold pieces. “consider your work ended.” His heavy-lidded gaze lifted to Eliot’s outraged stare. “Do not make me reconsider our professional relationship.”  
 

Eliot opened his mouth and I distracted him with a tug on his sleeve.

 

“Let’s not disturb the inspector any further. We’ll go up the way to Potter’s Sweet Shop, get something tasty.” I gave his sleeve another tug and he finally relented, following me out of the building. Fogg didn’t even glance up as we left.

 

“The audacity!” Eliot burst out. “The goddamned disrespect!” He stormed down the steps and I hurried to keep up, carrying my cane rather than relying on it for support.

 

“Eliot, wait! I know, and I agree with you!”

 

My companion turned and then waited for me when realized I was hobbling down the steps to match his pace.

 

“I’m sorry. My temper gets the best of me sometimes—something I often regret later. Thank you for not letting me give the inspector a piece of my mind, even if he did deserve it.” Eliot shrugged out of his coat; the day was shaping up to be unseasonably warm.

 

“So we’re off the case. What now?”

 

Eliot withdrew his cigarette case from his vest and popped it open to withdraw a silk-cut roll before lighting the tip with a quick roll and snap of his fingers. He blew out a rich plume of smoke and seemed to let go of his previous fury.

 

“First things first, my dear fellow. We’ll stop at the boarding house to gather your things—after you treat me to some sweets at Potter’s, as you suggested!” He patted my shoulder and bounded down the steps like a stag, leaving me startled but smiling before I followed.

 

*************

 

“What a great whopping jackass!” Margo said for the third time in an hour before trying to raid the bag of toffees I’d bought for Eliot. He gave a squeak of protest and held the bag against his chest, so I gave her one of my peppermint sticks instead. My meager collection of belongings was already stowed in the guest room—my room—I realized with a touch of wonder, and Margo sighed as she accepted the candy. We were all sharing the davenport, with Margo on my left and Eliot on my right. He sat closer to me than Margo and our hands touched now and then, whether by chance or design I couldn’t decide.

 

“I’m not concerned about Fogg,” Eliot said as he unwrapped a toffee.

 

“He took you off the case!” Margo fumed. “And for what? Just so he and his dunderhead crew can make it look like they broke the case?”

 

“You’re giving them too much credit, my dear.” Eliot popped the toffee into his mouth. “Assuming they can break this case on their own.”

 

“So what do we do now?” I asked, and Eliot raised a dark brow at me as he reached over and removed my cap. I rounded my shoulders and tried to take it back, but Eliot tucked it under one thigh and pushed my hair into its usual part. Tingles chased up my spine as his long fingers, charged with magic, brushed against my scalp.

 

“Do? Why, we continue to work the case, of course. I am a consulting detective, after all, and who better to consult on this matter than myself?”

 

“Eliot, we can’t! Fogg—”

 

He interrupted me with a languid wave of his hand.

 

“Fogg may have clout with the community, my dear doctor, but he doesn’t run everyone.”

 

“But who will fund our work?” I asked, and Eliot leaned forward a bit to smile at Margo. I turned to her.

 

“You?”

 

“Hey, I have money to spare, and I want to see this case solved just as much as anyone else. Some bastard is out there, killing our kind, and we can’t let it keep happening. You’re both hired, and that’s the end of it.” She lifted another peppermint stick from the bag with a few motions of her right hand and plucked it from the air before rising from the davenport.

 

“Come on. Let’s get you settled in before I eat all that damn candy.” She tugged Eliot to his feet as well and he took my hand until we formed a chain and Margo led us down the hallway single file, the candy stick poking out of the corner of her mouth like a sugary barber’s pole.


	11. Eliot Waugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep eludes both Quentin and Eliot, and Quentin shares some of his past with the consulting detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back! I hope you enjoy this installment.

Chapter 11: Eliot Waugh

 

Mike’s milk-white eyes targeted me, irregular blue veins standing out in awful relief on his forehead and temples, pulsing like diseased parasites under his pale skin. He raised the dagger as he had in the past, in a dozen dreams without end, as he had that awful day, and I raised one arm in reply as my telekinesis responded to the threat. Mike’s head twisted to the right, as if seized by invisible hands, and then it was facing the wall behind him. Blood gouted from his lips as his neck snapped, the sound like a single gunshot in an empty room, waking me as it always did. I opened my eyes to near darkness, letting sleep release its tenuous hold on me before I turned my head to look at Margo. She hadn’t stirred in her bed across the room, even though I usually woke her with my restless sleep. I rose, padding barefoot to the closet door to fetch my robe, tossing it on over my pajamas as I fought the sensation that my dead lover’s eyes were upon me. The small blue bottled locked away in my desk beckoned to me, and I went to answer its call.

 

I kept the key in a warded metal box above my favorite chair, on a shelf that was deep enough to hide the container itself in plain sight. I reached up, not bothering with the nearby lamp—I knew location by sense memory.

 

“Eliot?”

 

“Pan’s _pecker_!” I swore as I turned, my heart slamming, and Quentin uncurled himself from the overstuffed chair in the corner, reminding me of the silver Persian cat the local tea merchant owned—the animal spent much of its time curled up on a cane chair behind the counter, seeming to judge the customers as they came and went. “You startled the hell out of me!”

 

“I’m sorry—I couldn’t sleep. I came out here to think about the case.” He glanced out the window. “There’s a Cheshire moon out.”

 

I left the box for the moment and went to look out the window. A white, slim rind of moon grinned down.

 

“So it is.”

 

“What are you doing up?” Quentin asked, and I lifted a shoulder as my skin began to itch with the demand I’d been prepared to satisfy.

 

“I suppose the case has me restless as well.”

 

Quentin’s gaze flicked to the shelf above my chair and then back to me.

 

“You don’t look as if you’ve slept much at all.”

 

“Sometimes my brain won’t shut down,” I admitted, the itch becoming worse. Quentin’s dark eyes, almost black in the low light, studied me until I scowled. “And what the devil are you staring at?”

 

“What’s in the box?” He asked, holding my gaze. “Laudanum? Opium? Heroin? Whatever it is, bring it down and I’ll help you measure out the proper dose.”

 

“I don’t—”

 

“Yes you do. Bring it down—let me help.”

 

For a moment, I wanted to open our front door and shove this little upstart into the street for guessing at my addiction, but then a cooler head prevailed as I realized there was no judgment in his tone. I retrieved the grey metal box, undid the wards, and withdrew the key. Quentin didn’t comment as I unlocked a small drawer in my desk to reveal the small bottle of laudanum I kept there. I held it up, almost in defiance, and Quentin nodded.

 

“How long have you been an addict?”

 

“I’m not an addict! I only partake when I truly need to.  
 

 

Quentin fetched his doctor’s bag from his room and dug out a collection of measuring spoons from its depths. The clinked together on the copper ring they’d been strung on, and he held his hand out. I passed the bottle over and he poured out a dollop into one of the spoons.

 

“So why the need to partake this evening?” He offered me the spoon and I took the dose.

 

“It’s complicated.”

 

Quentin took the spoons back and cleaned them.

 

“Everything is complicated in the middle of the night.” He sat down in a nearby chair and drew his legs up to rest his chin on his knees. “I know . . . nights were always the hardest for me once the war was over and the only company I had was my memories.”

 

I went to my favorite chair and turned my head slightly to face him as I sat down.

 

“Did you dream?” I asked, and Quentin nodded.

 

“All the time—about things that I’d seen or events that might have happened if we hadn’t won the day.”

 

“About the fairy realm?” I asked, and something like disgust blended with fear flickered across his expression. He pushed a lock of silver hair from his forehead.

 

“Yes. Especially about the fairy realm.” He raised his eyes to mine. “I can almost see the question in your eyes, Eliot. Ask it,” he said, his tone resigned. The laudanum was spreading through me, sending tendrils of warmth and calm, finally banishing Mike’s face from my thoughts. My curiosity took over.

 

“What happened to you there? Is Margo right? Did you survive being fairy touched?”

 

“She’s right.”

 

“My Gods, Quentin, how?”

 

“There were only about half a dozen of us that went to battle the fairies on their own soil. We all knew what we risked. Our objective was to rebuild the wall between their world and ours so they couldn’t cross over anymore. I went as both a doctor and a soldier, and one of my classmates, a talented young woman named Zelda, went with me. She was something of a specialist on fairies, but—” Quentin closed his eyes a moment. “We thought we were prepared. But when we realized what the fairies were doing to their human captives, the ones they’d taken prisoner during battle—” Here he paused and wiped a hand across his mouth. I left my chair to seat myself on the hassock that faced his.

 

“What were they doing?”

 

“The bones. The bodies were being harvested of all the bones. They were collecting blood too, but the pile of bones—it nearly reached the ceiling. The organs and tissue were fed to a fire pit built into the floor. It must have been nearly thirty feet across and the smell, it . . . it was like what a feast in hell must smell like.”

 

“What were the bones for?” I asked, and Quentin’s fingers tightened around his own arms.

 

“The fairies were making a throne. For their queen, one that would allow her to become more powerful each time she sat in it. She would leech the magic from the bones of our dead.” Quentin’s voice shook. “What we saw infuriated Zelda—she charged the fairies working at the pile. I went after her but we were outnumbered and I could hear her screaming, even over the sound of the flames. Almost like what we had seen had driven her mad.”

 

“And you were captured?”

 

“I suppose I was destined for the bone pile,” Quentin nodded. “But then they discovered I had healing magic. The queen sent me to work healing injured human magicians they’d captured, so their bones would be strong for her throne.”

 

I felt a shudder bullet down my spine as Quentin’s words painted a picture: a prisoner of the fairies, forced to heal his own kind only they could be butchered! What kind of hope had he seen on their faces? How many had he heard scream as they were flayed alive, the flesh pulled from their bones? How much blood did Quentin believe was on his hands?

 

“And Zelda?” I asked when I could find my voice again. Quentin shook his head.

 

“They took her away . . . back to the room where the bodies were being harvested.” His voice broke on the last word and I leaned forward to touch his hands.

 

“Quentin . . . Zelda and the others—their deaths weren’t your fault. You had no choice, or the fairies would have killed you too.”

 

“I’ve told myself that many times since the war ended. And always on the heels of that is, what right do I have to remain alive when they’re all dead? That isn’t it so terribly unfair?” Moonlight reflected off the moisture on his smooth cheeks.

 

“Most of life is unfair, my fine fellow.” I patted his hands and reached out to catch a few tears on my fingers. They were transparent and glimmered briefly in the low light before falling to the floor. “How did you escape?”

 

“The council worked out a trade with the fairy queen. Once the war was over, she agreed to release any surviving human magicians if her people were allowed to retreat behind their veil forever. She had bound me to her to keep me weak, which is what caused this.” He touched his hair. “She also agreed to burn the bones she’d collected, which she did, but no one passes back through the veil without payment; even though she’d been defeated, she took it from me.” He put his feet on the floor and took my right hand. I blinked in surprise but then he guided it to my right shoulder.

 

“There,” he said. “Do you feel it?”

 

“Yes,” I nodded, my fingers tracing that slight groove I’d noticed when we’d first met. Quentin then guided my hand down to his right knee, where I noticed the flesh had move give than it should have had.

 

“She took most of my clavicle and nearly all the cartilage in that knee. I was sent to some rather amazing centaur physicians who replaced the bone with wood and a touch of synthetic skin. My knee is filled with wood fiber from an enchanted oak—the dryads were generous.”

 

“I’m so sorry, Quentin,” I said, my hand still resting on his knee. “And maybe you don’t want to hear this, but I believe you were incredibly brave. Very few people come back from the fairy realm at all, much less have the strength to recover from being spellbound and held captive there.”

 

“I’ve been told I’m brave before, Quentin nodded. A moment later, his hand covered mine. “And now that I’ve told you about the ghosts that keep me up to watch the moon, will you tell me of yours? Perhaps we’ll find some bravery there as well, and I won’t have to feel so alone in my memories.”

 

“Oh Quentin,” I whispered. “You don’t know what you ask.”

 

“Please?” His fingers stroked the back of my hand. “You’re safe here with me. I swear it.”

 

His words and touch were more than I could stand against.

 

“Very well,” I replied, and paused to light a cigarette. Once I sent a plume of smoke into the air, watching it break apart in the near darkness of the room, I began to speak.


	12. Eliot Waugh; Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot reveals a painful past to Quentin in this interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been such a long time since I last updated! Numerous health problems have cropped up that prevent me from doing a lot of the activities I usually enjoy, including writing. If you came back to read, thank you, I appreciate it so much!

 

 

Michael and I met at Brakebills, where he studied ancient languages and specialized in translation skills. His classmates called him a word whisperer, and there was no denying that words gave up their secrets for him. I’m not certain what drew us to each other; in a time where preferring the company of your own sex, both in and outside the bedroom, was still beyond taboo outside Brakebill’s walls, it seemed we both understood the needs of the other. All I knew was that I loved him like I’d never loved any other living thing, and our personal relationship grew out of working cases together.

 

Michael had an inquisitive nature, one that drew him deep into a case that I’d been working on. Gareth Clay, a magician and smuggler, had created a black-market human trafficking ring, targeting and gathering young magicians for trade to all over the globe. I’d been on the case for nearly four months when Michael was brought in to assist me with some linguistic clues, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves in each other’s arms.

 

He was from Texas, one of the largest states in the country, but there was no bluster or arrogance to him. He was thoughtful and slow to speak, choosing his own words as carefully as he teased phonics from spells that were otherwise impossible to pronounce. We worked on the Clay case, getting closer to breaking the ring with each day—until Clay identified us. A trained magician as well as a smuggler, he cast a spell on Michael that made him a slave and a killing machine. He came to me, his skin erupting with boils from black magic, his eyes as blank as windows that have been soaped over. Clay’s spell was a strong one, and even some of the stronger casts I had at my disposal were useless against it. It was as if Michael no longer recognized me or Margo, as if we’d never strolled the Manhattan streets together or shared a meal in Central Park . . . as if he had never lain with me after we’d made love, tracing exotic words over my chest and belly with his fingertips, grinning as he watched the muscles there quiver. That Michael was gone, and in its place, Clay had left a murderous zombie that clamped its hands around Margo’s throat and sought to strangle the life out of her while I watched.

 

It was my telekinesis that saved us, I suppose, for I still can’t say whether I could have consciously made the decision to kill Michael on my own. I understood what was happening—I could see Margo’s face going red, then an alarming shade of blue as he choked the life out of her. But then the power gathered and rushed from my body, as it had back at Brakebills, and Michael was flung away from Margo, his head twisting around on his neck like an abused play-dolly. His body spewed that terrible ochre from almost every orifice as he struck the far wall of our apartment and his eyes blew outward and bled down his cheeks like spoiled milk. I knew he was dead, and that my telekinesis had extended its protective nature to Margo, and I felt my heart shrivel and die along with him.

 

I wasn’t myself for hours afterward—the energy I’d expended had nearly done me in. Eventually I came around to Margo patting my cheeks, saying we had to do something with Michael’s body before Clay realized what had happened and decided to animate the corpse and send it after us. I knew she was right, as Clay’s powers were considerable. We made a portal to the furthest edge of the East River, where—no, Quentin, I’m all right, please, let me finish—where we set the body on fire and cast the ashes into the river, in a lead box Margo brought along. As burials go, I suppose we could have done worse for the person Michael had been. I moved through those proceedings like I was the zombie Michael had been—my muscles worked, I moved under my own power, and I even spoke a few words as Margo lifted that box far over the water and let it drop. I don’t recall what I said, exactly, and Margo and I never discussed it later.

 

What’s that? Oh yes . . . Gareth Clay was captured and executed several months later when one of his captives escaped and led the authorities back to his den. It was a brownstone—perfectly common from the outside, yet inside they found better than forty young magicians that were destined to slavery, both physical and sexual.

 

I think of myself that way sometimes. To see me on the street, one might think there was nothing extraordinary about me. I’m just one man among thousands in this city, making a living as a consulting detective. But look past me, Quentin—look into me—and you’ll see that what I am and what it did to Michael holds many parts of me captive, and perhaps always will.


End file.
